


Its All Make Believe

by ganseyboy



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternative Universe - Performing Arts, M/M, adam/ronan probably wont happen for a while but im just letting you know i love them, no honestly this is super self-indulgent dont mind me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 13:52:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3531689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ganseyboy/pseuds/ganseyboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Ronan Lynch is a dancer and the line between love and hate is blurred.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Its All Make Believe

**Author's Note:**

> This is really self-indulgent I'm sorry..........
> 
> Anyway [clears throat]. I figure this school has lessons for people who are not enrolled full time, like Saturday school, I guess?

It was bigger and cleaner and more accessible, but in a way, Henrietta School of Performing Arts reminded Ronan of Monmouth Manufacturing.

Or it would if he didn’t hate it so much.

It had been said that Niall Lynch had been a pioneer of the school and the introduction of the arts to their tiny town; and this wasn’t true, but a belligerent Ronan had stubbornly decided that unlike Declan he wasn’t going to let the Bad Things abuse Niall’s already fragile reputation. After all, Niall was dead. Ronan knew that. Ronan hated that.

Ronan hated the school. It had been said.

His anger was immutable. It had grown worse after Niall had died; then again, so had his habits. And the dancing. Niall loved the arts and he loved his sons (one more than the others), but he hated ballet. Aurora Lynch loved it. Ronan made no secret of the fact that Niall was his favourite.

And then came the school.

***

Ronan’s friend had the ugliest car he had ever seen. In orange glory, it rolled to a stop outside of Monmouth with all the grace of a plane crash landing. In a way, the car was so hard to look at it that it reminded Ronan of a plane crash. It was as damaged as the boy who rode in it every single day.

Gansey’s topsiders were first, and then his polo shirt, and then his expensive sunglasses. It took him seconds to leave the car, but in Ronan’s mind, it was all slow motion and heroic. He was the star of a film everybody was watching. He blinked, and the world bowed.

Gansey slid off his sunglasses and blinked. Ronan did not bow.

‘Shit, man,’ he said easily. ‘I thought I’d been abandoned.’

‘Where is Noah?’

Noah was a friend that Ronan did not like to consider a friend, because whenever he hung out with him for a long period of time, he would then disappear for a week. Both Gansey and Ronan knew that Noah had Issues, and he was tentative in telling his friends what was actually going on with him. Something to do with a Whelk character, who Ronan did not care to know.

Anyway, the bite of Noah’s appearance had worn off. In a quiet part of Ronan’s mind (the more religious, Ronan _Niall_ Lynch part; the one that was only unleased on Sundays), he wondered if he himself had anything to do with Noah always running away. He knew himself. It was likely that Noah knew as well.

Gansey did not, but for somebody who knew everything, he knew nothing about his best friend.

Gansey knocked his knuckles on the top his car; it was a complete Ronan Lynch action. Or a Gansey-On-Fire action.

Ronan was lounging on the top of the BMW that was once Niall’s and, after a poorly thought out theft, was now Ronan’s. It the back of his mind (the opposite of the Sunday one; the slightly more dangerous, bitter mind) he considered that Niall no longer needed a car. So it was settled.

‘Ronan,’ said Gansey.

His voice wasn’t acidic or dangerous or any other Ronan-word that could potentially be used to describe heated Gansey. It was still smooth and kindly, and it made Ronan want to drive far away. Further, even, than the Barns.

‘Don’t say it.’ He waited. Gansey gave him a look. A Declan look without the asshole. ‘Don’t. I’m bored of this.’

‘So am I,’ Gansey said. He waited. Ronan gave him a look, and it wasn’t anything like Declan, otherwise Gansey wouldn’t have frowned.

‘You can’t try that face on me. I’m not your–’ He didn’t say he wasn’t his brother, because he was, but he gave him a pointed look that said _I’m not a dick like Declan and I’m not malleable like Matthew_. He was just Gansey. And Ronan was suddenly angry about it.

‘Come on,’ Gansey said.

Ronan slid off his car and stalked over to the front of Monmouth. He wasn’t interested in discussing the Thing with Gansey; he wasn’t interested in his friend getting involved.

Gansey did not dance. At least, he did not dance like Ronan. He danced like a rich kid who had too many ballroom lessons as a child to care about stereotypical masculinity anymore. He moved freely and cleanly, whilst Ronan remained angry even when he was dancing. There were times – post-tragedy times – where Ronan would perform to himself in an empty studio at 7 p.m. with fluidity and grace.

God, the Gansey family would be so lucky to have him as a son.

But he was Niall Lynch’s son, and therefore from the age of 5 he had not been dancing with a stiff tie around his neck or after eating cucumber sandwiches. Because he was not Gansey, and because his father was Niall Lynch supposed pioneer of a performing arts school, and even despite the fact his father hated it, Ronan had not been dancing ballroom.

Ronan had been dancing ballet.

He hated how much he loved it.

***

‘One time,’ Gansey said.

They were back in Monmouth now. Gansey had followed him inside with a large bag of black and silver equipment hanging off his outstretched arms. Gansey did not go to the school, because he was everything in Aglionby anyway, the prestigious boarding school for rich and/or genius kids. The former and the latter were applicable to Richard Gansey iii. The latter was applicable to Adam Parrish.

Ronan did not think about Adam Parrish.

Gansey was a member of the oligarchy in Aglionby. He was popular, wealthy, and good looking. These things went without saying, but sometimes they flicked through Ronan’s mind as he drove late at night. Even Niall, he remembered, had been shocked that somebody like Gansey would want to be friends with him. They were on the same coin (Ronan was not popular but known; rich but more indulgent), but it was still striking to Ronan that two people could exist in the same world and yet be so different.

Gansey had stopped dancing.

Ronan wished that he had.

‘Once?’ Gansey prompted. He was less heated now, and settled down at his desk with his new equipment at this feet. As well as the shitfest teams he was on in Aglionby (The Golden Boy!), Gansey was searching for a dead welsh king. Glenpower or Glender or something. Sometimes Gansey invested hours upon hours of his time on it; sometimes he let it rot. He did not need Ronan’s help.

Ronan said, ‘No.’ He was eating cereal from the box and it tasted like the bread at the church. So like confession. ‘I can’t,’ he added lowly, a voice he reserved for Gansey.

‘Why not?’ Gansey flicked his fingers against the desk absently. His eyes were shining; he had only just changed his contacts. But in the dim light of Monmouth, Ronan pretended that Gansey was Matthew. His eyes were always shining when he looked at Ronan.

Ronan considered Gansey’s question and wanted to hit something. The desire was not strange (although maybe it was, having followed an interaction with his best friend), but he felt too exhausted to act on it.

He tugged at the hem of his black t-shirt and said, ‘Mom liked it.’

Ronan’s mother was comatose. Next.

Gansey was suddenly sympathetic, Ronan noticed. Gansey was kind, and he had seen it before, but the last time had been when they had found out about Adam Parrish and the reason somebody like him was sitting with people like them in Latin.

‘Dad hated it,’ Ronan said, but oddly enough, this admission sparked something else inside of him. One time, Gansey had said.

‘You don’t need to – well, you don’t need to particularly try.’ Gansey was reasoning as he flicked through his journal. Some loose pieces of paper flitted out like sad little birds. They landed on the floor next to Gansey’s back-up mint plant. ‘You’re already accepted, so you could just show up once and – not try.’

Not trying was what Ronan was good at. Not trying. Pretending he didn’t care. Really, he should have gone into acting.

‘Gansey,’ said Ronan. He was always saying his name.

‘You don’t have to.’ Gansey stood up now. He was perhaps restless but no longer on fire. Shame. Ronan would have liked to go for a drive. ‘I know that voice. You’re trying to win an argument, but I’m not arguing with you. Either you go and impress Aglionby. Or you don’t, and – you don’t.’

‘Will you help me?’ Ronan asked quietly.

Gansey paused at the window. A bee was outside (Ronan checked) and they both watched it with lazy interest. Finally, Gansey turned slightly and said, ‘Help you pass your exams or help you with your dancing?’

Gansey’s smile was wicked.

***

‘I want to go home.’

Gansey leaned against his car. ‘We are not leaving. We have been here for four minutes, and you promised.’

Four minutes had been spent waiting outside and watching. Henrietta School of Performing Arts was grand, a Gansey family building. Except it wasn’t. Ronan pondered the idea of Niall coming here to play his instruments or dance (impossible). He imagined Declan singing, because he was loud and annoying. He imagined Matthew as the one who tried the hardest.

Gansey tapped the face of his watch. ‘It’s almost Tuesday.’

‘Shut up,’ Ronan said, and kicked himself off Gansey’s ugly car, and started walking towards the main entrance.

The letter burned in his back pocket. (‘We are bringing _proof_?’ Ronan had asked. Gansey hadn’t answered.’) It was stupid, really, to come on a Sunday. There would be no classes, only groups of aliens, the kids who came to a place like this on the weekend.

So, him and Gansey.

The inside was like the inside of an art gallery, but Ronan didn’t know anything about art galleries, so that was a lousy observation. At the very least, Gansey seemed impressed. He pulled out his cell phone, a brand new make which Ronan detested, and glanced at the screen. He had something up about schools and how extra classes worked and how it would benefit his useless friend (read: Ronan Niall Lynch).

Not the exact phrasing, but close enough.

Somebody appeared at the help desk with no grace, which might have been because of her platform shoes, and might not. She shuffled some papers and looked like she didn’t know what was going on. She silenced a phone. She glared at a computer.

And then she looked up. ‘Oh. We were expecting you.’

Gansey and Ronan shared a look.

The girl waved her hand; she wore a lot of rings, and bracelets, and had on a colour polish that was the same shade of Gansey’s Camaro. ‘Lynch-and-friend. Sit. Or don’t. Why are you here?’ She said it like she knew; Ronan didn’t appreciate that.

Her nametag read ORLA in swirly capital letters and purple pen. Gansey glanced at it, then cleared his throat almost silently. ‘We’re here for – the ballet classes?’ Gansey never stumbled, but he was trying to determine whether or not Ronan wanted him to admit why they were there. Fucker. Ronan had come along, hadn’t he?

Orla was staring at Ronan. ‘You’re on the list.’

Ronan’s teeth hurt. Gansey poked his thigh to get him to stop grinding, and then smiled. It was a solid smile, uninviting of conflict. ‘We are both here to browse.’

Orla finally looked at Gansey – and then _looked_ , up and down – and smiled again. It was a secret smile, uninviting of bullshit. She shuffled more papers; some fell to the ground, and she didn’t pick them up. ‘That’s fair. Upstairs. You’ll figure it out.’

Gansey glanced at Ronan; he looked slightly uneasy. Only slightly. ‘I’m sure we will.’

***

They were lost. Ronan was irritable. And Gansey was praying to his Dead Welsh King.

‘Go back and ask Orla,’ Gansey said. Ronan offered him his middle finger and carried on walking. He was leaving; he had been there for twenty minutes (not including the four outside) and was already pissed off. He wanted a drink, and he wanted to drive, and he wanted to stop hearing hymns in his head.

They rounded a corner together when Gansey caught up, and almost bumped into two people in a heated conversation: one short, one tall. One a girl, one a boy.

‘Adam Parrish?’ Gansey said, sounding genuinely shocked. In his defence, Ronan was shocked, too. Where did Adam fit into this dicky equation?

Moreover, why was the tiny girl glaring at Gansey’s cell phone?

Adam looked at Gansey and then at Ronan. Warily, he said, ‘Gansey?’

Ronan had laughed for three years when Adam had first called Gansey ‘Dick’. He hadn’t known what name Gansey preferred. Gansey later told Ronan that his laughing didn’t make Gansey look bad, it only made Adam feel bad. So Ronan had felt like shit.

The girl looked between them all and said, ‘Is this a joke?’

Gansey looked at her. ‘Um – hello.’

She didn’t respond.

‘Are you here for the acting class?’ Adam asked. His voice was low and quiet, a polite and kind thing, but in an entirely different way to Gansey. They were so different. They got on so well.

Ronan wanted to go home.

‘Dancing,’ Gansey said with his chin high but not excluding. ‘Are you?’

‘Visiting.’ Adam glanced at the girl, who was starting to look older in Ronan’s eyes. Ronan the Raven Boy. What a disaster, he thought. Ronan’s minimal association with Aglionby was enough to disgust him until he turned old. He didn’t need Adam Parrish’s friend to judge him for it. Girlfriend. Sister. Whichever.

He wanted to go – where? Home? Bitterly, waving good-fucking-bye to his small Sunday mind, he thought about the Barns. He thought about Declan’s face when he had seen him this morning, and how Ronan knew he knew about the letter. How he knew that Ronan would not accept the acceptance.

He just wanted to leave.

Adam was looking at Ronan, but not in a way that Ronan had ever looked at Adam. He said dryly, ‘Both of you dance?’

At the same time, Orla the receptionist came up the stairs with her perfume in attendance. She had applied more since the last time they had seen her. ‘You found – no?’ She stopped. Assessed the group. Smiled at the girl.

‘Full house.’ She folded her arms but pointed with one finger to a back hallway. ‘Ballet is over there. Everything else, too, but it says – you know, speciality. Ballet.’

Adam’s mouth silently formed the word. Ronan gritted his teeth.

Gansey poked him.

‘Ballet isn’t on today,’ the smaller girl said with a puzzled expression.

Orla replied, ‘Lynch is here to sign up. Right?’

Ronan wanted to leave, and so he did.

***

‘Are you embarrassed?’

‘Gansey for – come on, man, what does a closed door mean?’

Gansey stepped inside. Ronan’s room was a mess with dozens of useless things, like the inside of his head had vomited on the floor. As he walked through, Gansey stepped on a pair of broken headphones. Ronan had tugged off his new ones and looped them around his neck.

Gansey asked again.

Ronan looked at the wall behind Gansey, and then back at his friend. And then back at the wall. ‘No.’ His voice was acidic. Sometimes he couldn’t help making his tone hurtful. But Gansey knew that.

‘You never made it to the studios,’ Gansey said. ‘And you knew where they were, didn’t you?’

‘I couldn’t remember.’

Ronan did not lie, so Gansey moved on. ‘I wanted you to – I didn’t care if you signed up. Just go and see it. And it’s not only ballet; I looked it up after what Orla said. You could take up salsa. Break dancing.’

‘Did you tell Parrish about your king?’

‘What does Adam have to do with anything?’ Gansey said, and then: ‘Oh. Oh, come on. He doesn’t care that you dance.’

Ronan bristled. ‘I told you I’m not embarrassed.’

‘Then try again.’

‘Are you shitting me?’ Ronan said. It wasn’t heated; he was talking to Gansey.

‘You promised me once,’ Gansey reminded him. ‘And anyway, you can always just watch. Or sign up tomorrow. Or’ – he judged Ronan’s expression carefully – ‘or watch. Just try. You do this.’

‘What if I can’t?’ Ronan tugged at the end of his headphone wire. They were going to break anyway; and he had the money for a new pair.

Gansey frowned. ‘I believe in you.’

Ronan stared at him. Something inside him uncurled; lazy, but sure. He tugged at his headphones, felt the wire twist and snap off the end of them of them, and then sighed. Gansey smiled.

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Tomorrow.’

**Author's Note:**

> [sunglasses emoji] find me here: @deadgansey


End file.
